


of butterflies and sunsets

by amarowan



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Drabble, Full of Tropes, Locked In, M/M, Minor Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins, Nicknames, Partial Nudity, Pining David Jacobs, aka i have a kink for jack saying 'davey', and it gets really hot, jack takes his shirt off, overuse of nicknames, thats it, they all work at a publishing company, they're editors, very self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 14:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20098684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarowan/pseuds/amarowan
Summary: Dave never expected to get locked in a small copy room with his longtime crush Jack Kelly, but everything happens for a reason, right? And if they can survive the lack of air conditioning and cramped room until someone comes by to unlock the door, maybe they'll come out of it better friends.Right?ORin which jack and dave get locked in, dave is a pining idiot, and there are moments like butterflies and grins like sunsets.





	of butterflies and sunsets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartily/gifts).

Dave Jacobs is several things, but careless is not one of them. 

Unfortunately, he seems to be stuck with a coworker who has careless as his middle name — Dave no longer bothers to count the amount of times Jack showed up to work missing something essential, whether that be his coat or his wallet or a folder full of important files, because the count was definitely straying into way-too-many territory. 

This wouldn’t be important if it wasn’t one of the things that Dave finds stupidly endearing on Jack, knowing full well that if he wasn’t completely enamoured by the way his broad form filled out the button up shirts that were considered work standard here and the way his smile seemed to sparkle with hidden mischief no matter how wide it was he would find Jack’s carelessness absolutely intolerable. 

But David Jacobs is completely and utterly whipped, so instead he just watches from across the room as Jack rushes out of the room to grab yet another forgotten item and sighs wistfully. 

“Dave!” Race yells from across the room. It’s nearly 8 pm, the only people still at the office being Jack, Race and himself — him because he was too distracted to get much work done today, Jack because he kept forgetting everything important, Race because he always closes up. It’s also much too late for Race to be yelling the way he is. “I forgot some papers in the copy room, can you grab them for me while I start locking up?” 

Dave nods, pressing the print button on the manuscript he’d just received. (Well, received two hours ago. He’d been much too busy admiring how good blue looks on Jack to remember to glance over the manuscript.) “Was just about to head there anyways.”

“Thanks!” Race shouts on the way out, voice muffled slightly by the file folder he’s currently got gripped between his teeth. 

The walk to the copy room is quiet, much quieter than it would have been if Dave had picked up the manuscript when he was supposed to. Remnants of summer sun filter in through the windows, painting the office halls in breathtaking shades of orange and pink. He takes a moment to admire the sunset just barely visible between all the towering skyscrapers, then keeps walking towards his destination. 

When he enters the copy room, he’s a bit startled to find out he’s not alone. Jack’s standing at the top of a step stool, trying (and failing) to reach something on top of the drawers despite the fact that he’s really not _ that _ short. “Need a hand?” Dave asks, and almost immediately regrets it because Jack startles so hard he falls off all three steps on the stool and lands squarely on his ass, arms splayed out above him as he lays on the linoleum. “Ah, fuck, sorry—“

Jack lets out a surprised wheeze, closing his eyes and lying on the floor for a moment before pushing himself up to a sitting position. “Davey—“ he says, slightly breathless, and Dave would be lying if he said his heart didn’t flutter at the sound of the nickname rolling off of Jack’s tongue so easily “—you wouldn’t mind helpin’ me out and grabbing the staple gun that’s on top of the drawer, wouldja?” 

Dave swallows and nods, knowing full well that if he tries to speak right now all his words will crumble to dust on his tongue. He mounts the stepladder nervously — Romeo broke it once trying to keep the last pudding cup away from Race, and it’s never been the same since — and reaches a hand up, fingers just barely grazing the aforementioned staple gun. He pushes onto the tips of his toes, half aware of the way his tongue pushes out the right corner of his mouth in concentration as his fingers brush against the staple gun again and again. “Jeez, who put this damn thing up here?” he grumbles, leaning onto his left foot so his right arm gains a bit more leverage. Warmth presses into his back, and he startles, turning back to see Jack Kelly gazing up at him with earnest brown eyes, a hand on his back to steady him, the heat emanating from it causing a blush to race up Dave’s cheeks and across his neck and shoulders. 

“Spot probably threw it up there to piss off Race,” Jack says, eyes meeting Dave’s as he gives him a roguish grin. Dave turns back to the drawer — too quickly, it seems, because he nearly topples himself over with the force and Jack shifts his hand from the small of his back to his waist, the other hand mirroring it on his other side and Dave knows he’s so red that he would rather die than face Jack right now — and reaches up for the staple gun again, hyper aware of every little shift of the muscles in his back. He grabs it this time, the extra support given wordlessly by Jack actually helping, and presses it into his hand as soon as he’s dismounted, turning to the printer and grabbing a few sheets at random from the bottom of the stack before blasting through the door, refusing to turn and acknowledge Jack’s ‘thanks!’ and the easy smile Dave knows is on his face. He doesn’t want Jack to see how flushed and flustered he is, how easily Jack can reduce him to a stammering mess.

Dave uses the short walk back to the office to compose himself, willing his cheeks to return to a normal temperature and for the fluttering in his chest to calm down. He walks in, handing Race the papers he asked for wordlessly before shutting down his computer and packing up for the night. Race locks up, sets off with a “bye” and yells down the hall at Jack for him to make sure all the doors are shut when he leaves tonight, to which Jack shouts back some sort of affirmation that seems to be good enough for Race. 

It takes an almost embarrassingly long amount of time for Dave to realize that he only has about half of the manuscript he needs, which means he either goes back for the other half now, or show up to work tomorrow _ extremely _ behind on his assignments. He sighs, weighs the pros and cons of just leaving the manuscript in his head once, twice, three times, realizes he’s stalling, and heads down the hall to the copy room. 

Even though the sun’s mostly gone by this hour, the heat of the day lingers, pressing down on Dave in a way that would cause him to sweat through his white shirt in a matter of seconds if the office didn’t have a decent air conditioning unit. He’s looking forward to being able to get out of the (comparably shitty) AC of the office and into the much better AC of his apartment, not so much to the trip that’ll get him to said superior air conditioning. 

Dave enters the copy room for the second time in the past hour, nearly tripping over Jack — who’s sitting on the floor stapling pamphlets and handouts together — and knocks into the door as he does so, hearing it shut behind him with a satisfying _ click _. “What the— what are you doing on the floor?”

Jack looks up, gives Dave a lackadaisical shrug. “Ain’t any chairs in here and my feet are tired.” Dave lets out a small laugh, stepping carefully past Jack’s splayed links to get to the printer, grabbing the missing half of his manuscript before heading back to the door. He navigates Jack’s mess of legs and arms and paper again, turns the doorknob of the copy room, pulls, and— nothing. His face heats a little with anxiety, and he pulls harder, even goes so far as to push the door even though he knows full well it’s a pull door, and. Shit. 

“The door won’t open,” Dave says, notes of panic just barely masked in his voice. “And Race already left, and he was the last one here.” Jack swears, pushing himself up off the floor to try his hand at opening the door, and— Zip. Nada. The door stays firmly shut, and Dave is slowly processing that he’s locked in a small room with his crush. 

“D’you got your phone?” Jack asks, turning to face Dave, and Dave pats his pockets, letting out a curse when he realizes they’re empty. 

“Must have left it in my bag.” 

Jack lets out a huff of air. “And I forgot mine at home this morning.” He laughs, but it’s dry and cold and bitter. “Shit, guess we’re stuck here till Spot comes to open in the morning.”

Dave begins to pace the best he can in the tiny room. Between the printers and the papers strewn about and Jack in his entirety, there isn’t a lot of room for pacing, but Dave makes it work somehow. “The night janitor isn’t here?”

“It’s a Tuesday, right? He doesn’t work Tuesdays and Saturdays. Meaning, we are completely and utterly alone.” 

Dave knocks into the counter, and shit there really isn’t enough room here to pace, and just lets himself slide down the counter and onto the linoleum. His manuscript lies forgotten on the counter behind him, Jack’s pamphlets and the staple gun the furthest thing from his mind. He tips his head up to look at the vent, blissfully cool air blowing into his face. “Well, at least we have air conditioning.” 

As if Dave cursed them by even daring to mention it, the air circulation stops, and a humid heat begins to settle over them. Dave sighs, feeling his heart sink as the reality of their situation sets in. “Shit.”

Jack lets out a laugh, hearty and full and altogether too happy for the situation they’ve gotten themselves into. “As if this night could get any worse,” he says, voice dry and barbed.

Dave tries to ignore the twinge in his chest when Jack says that, but the temperature in the copy room is already climbing, and heat makes him irritable. “Sorry for not being the best company,” he says, only half-joking as he laces his voice with sarcasm. He watches Jack flinch, taking a seat opposite Dave on the floor. 

“That’s— That ain’t what I meant.” Jack’s legs are sprawled across the linoleum floor, and if Dave moves his leg an inch to the left he’d knock against Jack’s calf. “Shit, Davey, I like spending time with you.” He gives Dave a wry grin, and Dave is totally imagining the way his chest warms at the sight. “Would prefer if we didn’t have to be locked in a room together to do that, though.”

Dave gives him a tentative grin of his own. “Well, you’re stuck with me. For the _ whole _night.”

Jack knocks his foot against Dave’s leg. “Gonna be a wild ride.”

+

_ Hour One _

“You paint? Really?”

Jack gives Dave a small smile. “Yeah, really. I ain’t much good, though.” 

“You’ll have to let me see one of these paintings and judge for myself,” Dave comments. Jack finished stapling those pamphlets together minutes after they’d accepted they were stuck, and Dave was more than content to watch him, the rhythmic motions his hands made as he assembled, stapled, rinse and repeat. But once that was done, there wasn’t much else for the boys to do, so, well — they were talking.

More specifically, Jack let loose a barrage of questions at Dave, and Dave had no choice but to answer.

“So what’s your hobby?” Jack asks, foot nudging Dave’s. They’d given up trying to sit anywhere about 30 minutes into the lock-in and when Jack decided to just sprawl out on the linoleum, face to the ceiling and its peeling paint, Dave followed suit. 

Dave nudges him back. “Ah, nothing special. Writing, I guess.”

Jack turns his head, and Dave can feel Jack’s gaze boring into him without having to meet his intense chocolate eyes. “Shit, you write? Like, stories?”

Dave shrugs, staring at the ceiling so he doesn’t have to look at Jack. “Yeah. They’re not great, though. ‘S why I went into editing instead of trying to be an author — I knew I wouldn’t make it in the industry.”

Jack pokes his cheek, hard enough that Dave lets out a small ‘tch’ at the touch. He swats away Jack’s hand, only for the offensive digit to make another pass not even ten seconds later. 

He turns to face Jack, trying to push anger and annoyance into his eyes but melting immediately when Jack’s gaze meets his. “What?”

Jack’s looking at him with those melted-chocolate eyes, and Dave hopes he isn’t blushing too hard because nothing makes him crack faster than an intense stare. “Why didn’t you keep writing?’

Dave pauses, unsure what to say. “I— I still write.”

“But like — why didn’t you push to get published?” Jack asks, and his voice is low and raw and honest and earnest and Dave wants nothing more than to just close the distance between their lips and kiss Jack until the sun comes up. “Shit, Davey—” and there it is again, Davey, _ Davey _ , rolling off of Jack’s tongue like honey and molten gold and Dave just wants to melt into the goddamn linoleum because of— of a goddamn _ nickname _, “— I ain’t even read your writing but I already know it’s good.” 

Dave lets out a breath, but gently, feeling the moment between them like a butterfly on a flower and knowing it’s only a matter of time before it flies away. “Just felt like a dream, you know? The kind that stays with the unachievable things, because you know it’s too good to ever be true.”

Jack studies him for a moment, and Dave sits there and marvels at how this butterfly covered in blue and orange hasn’t flown away yet, and he says, “One day, I’m gonna read your writing, and we’re gonna get you published.” His eyes burn like miniscule stars, like embers of fire during the middle of the night, and Dave’s imagination lets loose, throwing him into a world where Jack breathes a messy _ I love you _ against Dave’s mouth and then they’re kissing, there’s lips and love and everything Dave could dream of. 

Jack speaks, and it pulls David back into reality. “And that’s a promise, alright?”

Dave doesn’t trust himself to do anything but nod.

_ Hour 3 _

The air conditioning is still broken, and the temperature of the copy room has been steadily rising since the door locked. Dave’s trying desperately to ignore the way his hair is plastered against the back of his neck when Jack says, “Shit, it’s hot in here.”

He shoots back a _ yeah _ , hears how breathless he sounds from nothing other than the heat and okay, maybe the idea of kissing Jack senseless, and tells himself to shut up. Jack unbuttons the top button of his shirt — it’s blue, the colour of ocean water in the sun, and looks stupidly and unfairly good against Jack’s tan skin, his white smile and warm eyes — and Dave thinks, _ okay, he’s just getting some air, letting loose a little, _ but then Jack keeps unbuttoning his shirt, and Dave knows somewhere in the still rational part of his brain that he’s well and truly fucked. 

He watches, half entranced and half aware that watching your hot coworker take off his shirt isn’t something you should do if you want to keep your crush on him a secret, as Jack unbuttons the shirt all the way, strips off the sleeves, and casts that glorious blue shirt to the side of the room. 

Dave gives himself a moment — just a moment, no longer, or he knows he’ll never stop looking — to admire Jack. Admire the tan skin stretched over miles and miles of muscle, admire the way his shoulders are so fucking broad and big and Dave just wants to put his hands on his back and trace the smooth lines of his muscle down to the valley of his hips and — shit, he should probably stop before he gets too into it. 

And of course Jack catches him staring. “Like the view?” he teases, dark eyes crinkling at the corners, and Dave definitely doesn’t turn red, doesn’t stutter out a thousand things other than yes. 

The heat is insistent, pressing down on Dave like a few well-placed weights and pinning him to the floor. He debates in his head whether it’s worth it to keep his shirt on (it’s not) and whether he’s okay with Jack seeing his body (he’s really not, but it’s so _ goddamn _ hot) and shucks off his shirt, grateful that today was one of the days he decided to care and put an undershirt on beneath the dress shirts he wears for work. His face flushes, and he tells himself its from the heat but inside he knows it’s from the way that Jack’s tanned and broad in places where he’s pale and thin, and knows he shouldn’t compare himself with this Adonis, but does it anyways.

He’s skinny, he knows that — all angles and awkward corners where Jack is made of toned muscle and smooth tan skin. Dave also knows he’s embarrassingly pale, but that’s what happens when you spend more time in front of a computer screen tapping out page after page of words instead of doing normal human things, like getting out into the light of the sun. He’s all too aware of every way in which his body falls short, and all too aware of every way in which Jack’s is just perfection.

By the time Dave manages to look at Jack, a flush has made its way across his cheeks, up to the tips of his ears, down his neck and collarbone and across his shoulders. Hopefully Jack will think it’s just the heat. 

“Thank god those pesky clothes are out of the way,” Jack says, and Dave notices that his voice is smooth and warm and not unlike the sun brushing against tanned skin, and wishes desperately for that voice to be the first thing he hears in the morning and the last thing he hears before falling asleep. He lets out a noise of agreement, not trusting his vocal chords with words now that a shirtless Jack Kelly is in front of him.

Jack puts his arms above his head, back sliding down the counter, and he probably didn’t do it on purpose but now his arms, thick and strong and so many other wonderful things, are on full display and Dave has to remind himself to breathe. “The first thing I’m doin’ tomorrow is getting Spot to fix this goddamn AC.”

Dave lets out a laugh. “Good luck getting him to actually deal with that.”

Jack gives Dave a knowing grin. “You right, you right. This is the same kid that still hasn’t asked Race out yet even though they’ve been making out for weeks.”

Dave laughs again, and warmth blooms in his chest, filling him inside and out with a heat he found he didn’t mind. 

_ Hour 5 _

They talked for hours, about the stupidest things. How Dave’s brother Les almost failed chem because he couldn’t take his eyes off this girl in his class, Sally. How Jack’s been going with Crutchie to his physical therapy appointments and how it fills his heart with joy to watch Crutchie regain use of a limb he thought he’d lost forever. How Dave likes the sushi place down the block, and Jack prefers the burger place two streets the other way, but they both agree the Mexican restaurant around the corner is the best place to go for lunch.

“Dave, you ever—” Jack pauses, and that’s how Dave knows the conversation is taking a more serious turn, because Jack Kelly is famous for running his mouth first and thinking second. Dave turns to his right — because they’re on the floor again, both of them staring up at the ceiling while laying on linoleum and praying their sweat won’t stick them to the floor — and finds Jack staring back at him.

“You ever—” Jack starts again, and Dave’s watching the way his lips move around the words, accent so very cliche for a New Yorker and yet somehow so very Jack, “you ever been with guys?”

Dave chokes on his spit, coughing a few times before he can breathe again. That was a fucking curve ball. “Why’re you asking?”

Jack takes too long to respond, and that’s how Dave knows it’s something more. “Chalk it up to curiosity.” His eyes bore into Dave’s, and Dave feels so vulnerable, even though Jack’s the one with his fucking shirt off. 

“I… like guys,” Dave says, and that’s true, he’s as gay as a maypole, “but I’ve never dated one. Never really _ been _ with a guy.” Jack lets out a breath, so miniscule Dave thinks he imagined it, and then turns back to look at the ceiling. Dave lets the moment sit, aiming his own gaze at the ceiling.

“You ever been with guys?” Dave asks, once the silence is almost uncomfortable, because if he’s baring his soul for someone who probably thinks of him as just a coworker he wants, hopes, _ needs _ Jack to show some vulnerability back. 

“No,” Jack says, the word somehow too big for his mouth as he tries to get it out, and Dave feels something sinking in his chest, because fucking _ hell _ he fell for another straight guy, but Jack’s not done. Dave’s still watching, watches as he takes a breath, opens his mouth to speak, closes it again. Takes another breath, and this time the words work, falling out of his mouth in spurts. “I ain’t ever been with a guy before but… but that don’t mean I don’t want to.” 

He says it so quietly it’s almost a whisper.

Silence sits between them, almost too heavy in how it presses on Dave’s chest, and even though sleep is tugging at his eyelids and telling him to just forget about it, to just turn over and try to sleep on this sticky linoleum and forget about how his heart feels so full it’ll burst whenever Jack looks at him, Dave pushes his eyelids open and forces himself to say something.

“Jack,” he says, turning to look at Jack, watching as he pushes himself back over to meet Dave’s gaze. He knows his voice is somber, but he’s so scared about what might happen that he can’t be bothered to control his voice, to put some sort of fake enthusiasm in it and make Jack think this is anything other than serious. Dave sucks in a breath. “I’m going to try something, okay? Tell me if you don’t like it.”

Dave knows this is a bad idea. Knows that if something goes south he’ll still be stuck with him for another at least eight hours. He worries about what if and maybe and probably and makes the decision to just push it all away, trading thoughts of the future for action of the now. 

(At least if it doesn’t work out Dave can just roll over and go to sleep.)

Jack nods, confusion momentarily flickering over his face but quickly disappearing as Dave’s eyes meet his. Dave sits up, and Jack follows suit, and god _ fucking _ damn it Jack looks so good it has to be illegal, all tan and toned and everything Dave’s not and Dave would be lying if he didn’t get a little more flushed, a little more heated at the sight of Jack, Jack and his _ biceps _ and _ six pack _ and _ chocolate eyes _ and _ crooked grin _. 

Dave takes another breath. Steels himself. 

He reaches out, taking Jack’s cheek in his hand, and presses his lips against Jack’s.

They’re soft, and plush, and Jack’s cheek is warm beneath his hand and it feels so good Dave almost (_ almost _) moans into Jack’s mouth (and god, that’s almost embarrassing, being so elated from just a chaste kiss) and Dave gives it one, two, three seconds before he pulls back. He’s sure his face is redder than Jack’s dumb cherry-red motorcycle and can’t look Jack in the eye, because what if it was all a mistake, and— 

Jack’s looking at him like he’s a sunset, full of wonder and awe and a thousand other things Dave can’t even begin to describe, and maybe kissing him wasn’t a mistake after all. “_ Davey, _” Jack breathes, and it’s a promise and a vow and a prayer all in one, and Dave almost hates how much this nickname makes him feel. 

“Jackie,” he says, the ying to the yang of ‘Davey’ and Jack honest-to-god moans, clenching his teeth shut to muffle the sound before pulling Dave back in and absolutely devouring him. Their lips meet and this time it’s decidedly less chaste than the cautious kiss Dave gave Jack not even five minutes ago, and Jack’s doing this thing with his teeth that is driving Dave absolutely insane. 

One of Dave’s hands finds its way to Jack’s hipbone, the sharp edge jutting out in a way that makes Dave weak at the knees, and Jack shudders and lets out a full, deep moan into Dave’s mouth when he presses his fingers against it. “Shit,” Dave says, voice shaking but full of everything, “_ shit _, Jackie, you’re so hot, fuck, shit—” but then Jack’s mouth is pressing into his again and he can’t say anything.

_ Hour 13 _

They wake up tangled, Jack’s arms around Dave and Dave’s leg between Jack’s, and it’s warm and comfortable and feels like home. Dave doesn’t want to move, but he knows that if Spot opens the copy room door and sees them spooning while Jack is shirtless he’s gonna have some questions, and Dave doesn’t even know if he’ll have answers for them yet.

“Jack,” he almost says, but then he sees Jack still sleeping, how soft and small he looks, and decides to let him sleep for a little while longer. Eventually Jack stirs, and he gives Dave this sleepy smile that damn near melts his heart. 

“Mornin’, Davey,” he says, and hearing that nickname rolling off Jack’s sleep addled tongue makes Dave want to kiss Jack into the next century. (He doesn’t, though, because morning breath is gross.) 

Dave throws Jack’s shirt at him, decidedly more wrinkled than it was yesterday. “Morning. I hope you have a change of clothes or something.” Jack winces, slips the shirt on, and shakes his head.

“S’okay, I show up late all the time anyways. I’ll just run home quickly to grab a new shirt.” 

There’s a comfortable lull in the conversation, and then Dave forces himself to pose a question that’s been rolling around his mouth all evening. “Do you want to go on a date?” he asks, but it comes out all rushed and blurred and more in the key of _ d’youwannagoonadate, _ but Jack understands anyways and gives Dave a roguish grin that melts his heart. 

“D’you really think I’d spend the whole night kissing you if I didn’t want to date you?” he asks, the easy lilt of his voice calming Dave’s racing pulse. “Of course, Davey.” And morning breath be damned, Dave leans forward and kisses Jack, and it’s considerably tamer than yesterday but still full of heat and passion just barely kept below the surface. 

A key slides into the copy room lock as they separate, and the door opens to reveal the tiny but intimidating Spot Conlon, very confused as to why two rumpled looking editors are in the copy room. “The fuck you’s doing in here?”

“Race locked us in on accident,” Jack explains smoothly, ignoring the way Dave’s cheeks are flushed and his own lips are swollen a slight pink. “Davey and I both forgot our phones elsewhere so we decided to just wait out the night in the copy room.”

He stands up, brushes himself off, and breezes past Spot, whose face is covered in doubt. “I need a coffee, stat,” Jack says as he passes him, leaving Davey sitting on the floor with Spot’s intense gaze pinning him to the floor.

Spot doesn’t even need to open his mouth for Dave to know the question he’s asking. “Honest to god we got locked in,” Dave says, and that’s not a lie, so he doesn’t feel bad about saying it. But Spot’s glare tells him that isn’t explanation enough.

Dave decides with the same brazen bravery that overtook him when he kissed Jack that he’s not going to give Spot what he wants. He breezes past Spot much the same way Jack did, pausing as he passes him to say, “If you get your shit together and ask Race on a date, maybe I’ll tell you what _ really _ happened in your precious copy room.”

Spot honest-to-god squawks, and Dave lets his laughter, lighter than air, carry him out of the room, letting Jack’s loud voice — loud, and yet so familiar and safe now — lead him to the break room, where he plans on pouring himself a hefty cup of coffee while he finally reads over the forgotten manuscript. 

Today David Jacobs is careless — no, not careless. _ Carefree _, with the ghostly remnants of Jack’s kisses still pressing against his lips and the knowledge that he has a date with his coworker-turned-longtime-crush-turned-maybe-potential-boyfriend. He’s Jack’s Davey, and Jack is his Jackie, and things have never felt so right.

Like a butterfly, David Jacobs spreads his wings — so carefree and _ light _ — and soars.

**Author's Note:**

> considering how self-indulgent this was im surprised it turned out as good as it did
> 
> my first newsies fic!! woo! just a short lil drabble but i've been watching and rewatching way too much lately, and of course my writer brain went into overdrive. i hope u enjoyed reading as much as i did writing!!
> 
> and yes, i realize this is full of tropes. so sue me, they're fun tropes!!


End file.
